REAL SIMPLE (almost entry....)
When did you first understand the meaning of love?
I was 41 years old, beginning peri-menopause and the mother of three sons ages 4, 8, and 11. Because I was concerned that I might be ill, I secretly took a pregnancy test and when that pink plus sign popped up I was shocked. We lived in the exclusive community of Southampton, Long Island, and though we were far from exclusive ourselves, we built the first “non-toxic” home in the area and were featured in several newspapers. When at long last it was built, it was a thrill to move into our beautiful, healthy, fragrant home that smelled like freshly squeezed lemons. At the time, my husband, Shep was a successful realtor, earning enough income to allow me to be a happy stay at home mom.
That was of course, until the bottom fell out of the real estate market on Black Monday, 1987. The first thing to sink was real estate, particularly the second home market in a resort area. We were essentially without an income overnight. We argued, we cried, we scrambled and we became very creative. Shep took a job as a school bus driver and in doing so, earned a bit of money but most importantly received the same healthcare coverage as the teachers did. By night he waited tables for the rich and famous at the Hampton’s hottest restaurant at the time, Sapore di Mare. There, he learned culinary skills that remain with him today and a great appreciation for well-prepared, quality food. On Wednesdays we distributed organic fruits and vegetables to our affluent customers, which we purchased in bulk and resold at a profit. Carefully wrapping the heads of butter lettuce and rinsing each tart cherry we placed the orders in the refrigerators of our celebrity customers. A benefit was that our family got to eat well for little investment. On Friday afternoons we would pack clothes for the weekend and move in with our kids. We shared their beds so that we could rent out two bedrooms as a Bed and Breakfast. Often, we netted about $500 minus the cost of scones and jam. On many Friday nights, I helped cater some of the Hamptons coolest parties. This is how we survived from week to week.
Although I really was happy being home, I was also glad to see the light at the end of the tunnel of babyhood and the possibility of getting involved in things other than La Leche League and playgroups. So, finding myself pregnant by surprise was not only an obstacle but also a deep disappointment. I phoned my long time friend, Joan, sobbing on the phone and asked her to meet me for lunch at The Driver’s Seat. She met me with much trepidation, fearing that I was about to tell her that either I was in the midst of a torrid affair, or had a life threatening illness. When I told her why I was crying, she stared at me in disbelief as if she wanted to break into song “Is That All There Is?” I lamented how broke we were, that I already had enough kids, that I needed to work now ad nauseum. I also had this shameful feeling that I was too old and now too poor to have another child, anticipating the disapproval of others.
Because I have always been in awe of childbearing and because I am a huge breastfeeding advocate, the actual pregnancy was comfortably woven into my life. However, I did ruminate over sending bad vibes to this baby with thoughts of being unwanted throughout the nine months. On an icy evening on January 17, 1993, some 42 weeks pregnant, I began laboring at home with two kind midwives. It was my most difficult birth and labor never seemed to end. I struggled, finally actually screaming that baby out into my soft bedroom chair at 1 am. Once he was born, we all understood the struggle as he weighed in at 10 ½ pounds! Sweetly, in my arms, we melted into bed together. He tenderly came to my breast and I began to cry from sheer, unbridled joy, exhilaration and the sight of my now four sons surrounding me, along with the loving eyes of Shep. We named our newest bald, little son, Gregory, after a dear friend. Now my stand up and shout song needed to be, “I am Woman, Hear me Roar.”
During the next few months, we put our cherished, green home on the market and made plans to move to a more affordable home in North Carolina. I spent many hours in my lovely, peach bedroom, nursing my precious, squishy baby always whispering into his head, “I am so glad you are here. I love you. I am so blessed that you are mine.” We sang “Blue Eyes” along with Elton John to him since he was our only non-brown eyed child and I danced with him to Louis Armstrong’s “It’s a Wonderful World.” Once settled in North Carolina, Gregory and I went to Whole Foods every Tuesday while we took one of my sons to a homeschool group and we strolled in the afternoons to pick the younger boys up from their new school. We rocked in Shep’s grandmothers old rocker at naptime, watching the latest developments on the OJ Simpson case. I felt grateful for the joyful life I had with the hopes for more of the same, when I would lie in bed nursing Gregory to sleep staring out at the North Carolina pine trees
In May of 1995, we decided to take a trip to visit our old Hamptons friends. Gregory was two years old and always unhappy in his car seat so he and I flew to New York while Shep drove the minivan with the other three boys. Once in the Hamptons, we listed all the friends to visit but made one stop first. This was just an “acquaintance” as one says when one is classifying levels of friendship, but a La Leche League mom who had just given birth to a new baby she wanted me to meet. Shep and I disliked her husband, intensely for his infidelities, false bravado, and reputation for being an extremely dishonest politician, so we went when he was not home. However, he did come home while we were still there and monopolized the conversation. We were attempting to leave but, the rest as they say, is indeed, “history” and for us, life-changing history at that.
Two of my boys were playing outside, while Gregory followed them around. He tended to “shoot baskets” by throwing the oversized basketball down to the ground and then looking up at the hoop to see if it had miraculously gone in! Early May in New York is not yet time for swimming but, Gregory found his way into the still cold swimming pool. The shocking sight of him floating in his yellow sweat suit remains engraved in my mind forever. An ambulance rushed him to a local hospital, followed by airlifting him to a huge medical center. Bathed in complete and utter terror, I sat next to his soft, naked body as the doctors administered bolus after bolus of Lasix, breathed for him, and tried all things humanly and medically possible to keep his heart beating. We prayed and begged incessantly. We watched the lines on the monitor. We listened to the beeps. Never in my life, did I realize the depths of desperate, yearning love that one could feel for another. I wanted my beloved son in any form, in any condition, but I wanted him alive and present and at my breast so that I could nourish him back to health. My heart pounded with continuously outpouring, searing love. My begging tears fell onto his small chest. Occasionally, I would look up into my frantic husband’s eyes and say, “What should we do?” My 11 year old son wandered in the hospital hallways, imploring, “Mommy, do something.” Despite all the love in the world, Gregory drew his last supported breath at 6 am the next morning.
Suffice to say, as a family we spent the next several years in deep grief, continuous counseling and the vital support of church, family and Compassionate Friends. We were and remain today, five humans, changed forever. For me, navigating my way through deep connections of an unexpected love followed by a violent, tragic loss, taught me a previously unknown meaning of real love. We each carry with us that love, manifesting itself in different ways, some productive, some not so helpful but real and honest, nonetheless. We learned that no matter how much we love and how much we want to hold onto the one who we love, sometimes, we are left with only the understanding.
Thursday, September 29, 2011
When Did You First Understand the Meaning of Love? (Submitted to Real Simple contest)
When did you first understand the meaning of love?
It was mid-December 1956 and my father arrived for his nightly ritual of feeding me my supper in the isolation ward of Linden General Hospital in Brooklyn, New York. I was five years old and could rely on him coming every single evening despite the fact that he was working three jobs. “Daddy”, I whispered, “there is gristle in the meat” as if I wanted to be sure no one heard my complaint. He reassured me that it was okay and he would remove it before I ate it. I secretly relished him actually cutting my meat and feeding it to me forkful by forkful. It felt nourishing and caring to me and I can remember sighing dramatically, while eating. Then, I reassured him that I was okay despite being alone all day because I always had “Joanie the Bride doll” and Louise- The-Red- Headed-Nurse who came with me to x-ray every morning. I chose not to mention how loudly I screamed each morning when she came to give me my daily shot of penicillin. In my tender young heart I sensed his exhaustion and stress and I did not want him to worry more than necessary.
My father had plenty on his plate. He was a parking meter collector by day. He trudged through the relentless, summer heat and the cold, snowy winters collecting the dimes from meters for the City of New York. By night he sold Fuller Brush and Baby Tender high chairs at home parties. I was particularly taken with the wind up teeth he would launch at the beginning of each party to get a laugh and relax the crowd enough to spend their money. His weekend stint consisted of knocking on the doors of delinquent customers in a city housing project, attempting to collect money owed for “religious statues.” Even as young as I was, I remember thinking there was irony here in owning and supposedly praying to a large plaster statue of The Sacred Heart of Jesus, or Mother Mary in prayer, that remained unpaid for! It was a dangerous and grueling business; since these customers never had the money they owed and threatened his life regularly.
My mother was nine months pregnant and became ill with a serious case of strep throat. She never once came to visit me during my month long hospital stay. Labor finally began and my baby sister was born on December 18, 1956. My grandmother was busy tending to my grandfather in yet another hospital since he had just suffered a heart attack, so she couldn’t visit me either. Somehow, my father made the rounds to all three hospitals every day.
My diagnosis of pneumonia did not come easily. After many visits to Dr. Bursen and Dr. Willens (the official doctors to the East New York housing project children) and many frustrating misdiagnoses of possible dust or chocolate allergies, finally one of them realized I had pneumonia. I had missed most of kindergarten sick at home, wheezing and sneezing for weeks on end. I would awaken in the middle of many nights, sure that I was dying, unable to draw a breath. I would call, “Daddy, Daddy, I can’t breathe.” He would always come, dazed and half asleep to rub Vicks Vapor Rub on my chest. Then, he’d sit on the edge of my bed until my gasping slowed and breathing returned enough for me to fall back asleep. So, when I finally received a real diagnosis, it was a relief. However, in those days, pneumonia was a pretty serious illness so I was admitted to an isolation ward, at five years old.
I spent a lot of time crying alone in that metal hospital bed, hour after hour dreading the shots that made me holler and the daily x-rays. I played endlessly with Joanie and acted out her wedding on a daily basis. I tried to draw pictures of ladies the way my mother did. I never could and my mother never showed up to teach me the skill. Louise, the nurse with the red hair, was sweet and would chat with me about my doll in the mornings before she got too busy.
On New Year’s Eve, I was declared well and discharged from the hospital. My new sister, Alice, was now two weeks old and home with my mother. I couldn’t wait to see her. My father came to the hospital from work, picked me up and wrapped me in a navy blue and red English wool blanket with fringe all around it. To this day, 55 years later, I can feel and smell that blanket. It was coarse but soft, firm but comforting and very warm. My big, strong daddy carried me out into the freezing night and the cold, fresh smell is one that stays with me to this day. When I looked up at the lamppost I saw a torrent of snowflakes and stuck my tongue out to catch one, giggling all the while. I felt free for the first time in a month and I was as ecstatic as a five year old could be. Most of all, I felt completely loved and rescued, burrowing my face into my father’s shoulder and the cozy blanket. Whenever I think of that moment, being carried to my chariot, my father’s 1951 Black Chevrolet for the ride home, tears well up, my heart races a bit, and I remember that I was loved.
It was mid-December 1956 and my father arrived for his nightly ritual of feeding me my supper in the isolation ward of Linden General Hospital in Brooklyn, New York. I was five years old and could rely on him coming every single evening despite the fact that he was working three jobs. “Daddy”, I whispered, “there is gristle in the meat” as if I wanted to be sure no one heard my complaint. He reassured me that it was okay and he would remove it before I ate it. I secretly relished him actually cutting my meat and feeding it to me forkful by forkful. It felt nourishing and caring to me and I can remember sighing dramatically, while eating. Then, I reassured him that I was okay despite being alone all day because I always had “Joanie the Bride doll” and Louise- The-Red- Headed-Nurse who came with me to x-ray every morning. I chose not to mention how loudly I screamed each morning when she came to give me my daily shot of penicillin. In my tender young heart I sensed his exhaustion and stress and I did not want him to worry more than necessary.
My father had plenty on his plate. He was a parking meter collector by day. He trudged through the relentless, summer heat and the cold, snowy winters collecting the dimes from meters for the City of New York. By night he sold Fuller Brush and Baby Tender high chairs at home parties. I was particularly taken with the wind up teeth he would launch at the beginning of each party to get a laugh and relax the crowd enough to spend their money. His weekend stint consisted of knocking on the doors of delinquent customers in a city housing project, attempting to collect money owed for “religious statues.” Even as young as I was, I remember thinking there was irony here in owning and supposedly praying to a large plaster statue of The Sacred Heart of Jesus, or Mother Mary in prayer, that remained unpaid for! It was a dangerous and grueling business; since these customers never had the money they owed and threatened his life regularly.
My mother was nine months pregnant and became ill with a serious case of strep throat. She never once came to visit me during my month long hospital stay. Labor finally began and my baby sister was born on December 18, 1956. My grandmother was busy tending to my grandfather in yet another hospital since he had just suffered a heart attack, so she couldn’t visit me either. Somehow, my father made the rounds to all three hospitals every day.
My diagnosis of pneumonia did not come easily. After many visits to Dr. Bursen and Dr. Willens (the official doctors to the East New York housing project children) and many frustrating misdiagnoses of possible dust or chocolate allergies, finally one of them realized I had pneumonia. I had missed most of kindergarten sick at home, wheezing and sneezing for weeks on end. I would awaken in the middle of many nights, sure that I was dying, unable to draw a breath. I would call, “Daddy, Daddy, I can’t breathe.” He would always come, dazed and half asleep to rub Vicks Vapor Rub on my chest. Then, he’d sit on the edge of my bed until my gasping slowed and breathing returned enough for me to fall back asleep. So, when I finally received a real diagnosis, it was a relief. However, in those days, pneumonia was a pretty serious illness so I was admitted to an isolation ward, at five years old.
I spent a lot of time crying alone in that metal hospital bed, hour after hour dreading the shots that made me holler and the daily x-rays. I played endlessly with Joanie and acted out her wedding on a daily basis. I tried to draw pictures of ladies the way my mother did. I never could and my mother never showed up to teach me the skill. Louise, the nurse with the red hair, was sweet and would chat with me about my doll in the mornings before she got too busy.
On New Year’s Eve, I was declared well and discharged from the hospital. My new sister, Alice, was now two weeks old and home with my mother. I couldn’t wait to see her. My father came to the hospital from work, picked me up and wrapped me in a navy blue and red English wool blanket with fringe all around it. To this day, 55 years later, I can feel and smell that blanket. It was coarse but soft, firm but comforting and very warm. My big, strong daddy carried me out into the freezing night and the cold, fresh smell is one that stays with me to this day. When I looked up at the lamppost I saw a torrent of snowflakes and stuck my tongue out to catch one, giggling all the while. I felt free for the first time in a month and I was as ecstatic as a five year old could be. Most of all, I felt completely loved and rescued, burrowing my face into my father’s shoulder and the cozy blanket. Whenever I think of that moment, being carried to my chariot, my father’s 1951 Black Chevrolet for the ride home, tears well up, my heart races a bit, and I remember that I was loved.
Sunday, August 21, 2011
Celebrating Sam and Will's Birthday without Peter
Today, my sweet twin boys Sam and Will turn 13! A momentous occasion for sure and yet, all I want to do today is cry. All I can really focus on, is how gravely ill Peter is and it is getting to me on a 24 hour basis now. He is getting worse and worse and I don't know what to do next. I feel that I am depressed more often than not. This latest news of his adrenals failing is probably more than we can handle right now. And, on the heels of that news and doctor visit, Peter and I had a hideous fight that was so awful I think I have blocked it for the last few days and yet, I am still quivering inside. When, we came out of that office, I felt a complete feeling of terror and urgency to clean out his system, to "save" his organs by completely detoxing him off of all the drugs he is on and has been, that have made him become completely toxic and have caused his hormonal systems to shut down so much, that he can no longer do much of anything. I felt complete panic and driving home we had the most awful, yelling, vicious fight ending with Peter jumping out of my car in traffic. I went nuts and turned around as soon as I could, driving back to the gas station on the corner. Suddenly, unbelievably, my cell phone would NOT work. More panic. I ran into the gas station and begged these Jamaican guys to let me use their phone. They were kind and very concerned. I called Nick and begged him to come asap. Sam and Will were waiting for me to pick them up in the library and I called Shep and asked him to go there. Then, I began walking the entire shopping center searching and then screaming for Peter who I could not find. Went into the movie theater and then asked them to use their phone so I could try and call Peter. I was shaking too much to dial, so these nice guys did it for me. No answer. I went in and out of every store yelling for him, crying, shaking, hyperventilating and feeling like I would simply collapse any moment. Where is he? Where is he? When I thought I was nearly at my end, he called and said he was down the road, several blocks away and he could walk no longer. When I got him, I could no longer catch a breath and began to feel that I would vomit. He kept saying he would drive but I could not allow that. Eventually I drove us home, where Nick and Shep awaited us to try and have a conversation to calm things down. But mostly, Shep cried and I cried and spoke of how we could not watch Peter like this much longer. Jesus, please, show us the way.
So, now more days of Peter just lying in bed, with no strength, no energy, no hope, no nothing. I went to church this morning but I couldn't stop crying. The thought of me begging, begging, screaming for God to help us, reduced me to tears. The hymns, made me gasp. I held Shep's hand so tight and kept whispering to him, "I don't think I can do this."
So, now I must snap to it. I must celebrate thirteen years passing of one of the most glorious days of my life. But instead, I cannot stop weeping. God help us all. Help me stay focused on Sam and Will for these next few hours. Amen.
So, now more days of Peter just lying in bed, with no strength, no energy, no hope, no nothing. I went to church this morning but I couldn't stop crying. The thought of me begging, begging, screaming for God to help us, reduced me to tears. The hymns, made me gasp. I held Shep's hand so tight and kept whispering to him, "I don't think I can do this."
So, now I must snap to it. I must celebrate thirteen years passing of one of the most glorious days of my life. But instead, I cannot stop weeping. God help us all. Help me stay focused on Sam and Will for these next few hours. Amen.
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
Debbie's Jack Rogers Sandals
On my feet are new sandals that I have lusted after for 38 years. I finally have them! They are not unusual in that you probably see them everywhere and have become a new yuppie/preppie standard of sorts. They are now called Jack Rogers, though when I first saw them in Southampton, they were called Jackie Rogers. Even then, they came in a few different colors, but now they come in dozens of cool color combos. I am not sure which color combo Jackie Kennedy chose, but she was indeed the one, who made these a fashion item.
In 1973, I sublet my apartment in Richmond Hill, Queens. It is hard to imagine now, who would have wanted to live there. It was in a two family home with an Irish immigrant family who owned it, living on the first floor. There was little or no privacy. I lived upstairs in a converted "illegal" one bedroom apartment with a kitchen that had been a bedroom. I shared a hallway bathroom with Alice Eggerton who was in her late 80's and chain-smoked Virginia Slims when she wasn't choking from coughing. Considering the fact that I was only 16 years old when I first left home, I suppose this was all that I needed. I was safe, peaceful and away from my Borderline personality mother. So, in the summer of 1973, I sublet this place to a friend I had worked with. I packed my bags and moved out to a one-room rental in Southampton, Long Island, overlooking Shinnecock Bay with Black eyed Susans in the driveway.
As soon as I got out to the Hamptons, I hit Jobs (pronounced with long “o” like in the bible!) Lane and Main Street checking each boutique for employment. When I got to the Tapemeasure Boutique at the end of Jobs Lane, I was hired by a vivacious blonde, named, Debbie Owen. I had a merchandising degree from The Fashion Institute of Technology and had worked as a designer, buyer, manager in various fashion industry positions so I was quite qualified for this position. But, I wanted to live in the Hamptons and was convinced I could live there year round, so this is where I would start.
Meeting Debbie Owen was life changing. She became a key figure and influence on my life with more largesse then I could ever have imagined. I was 23 years old and though I had lived a fuller life than most women that age, I was still a virgin and had not been in a steady relationship yet. Debbie became my role model in every way. She was married to Billy who was this adorable guy and she had a baby named Kyle. Her baby was also cute, but had a large hemangioma on his head, which caught one’s eye while cooing to him in his seat. I learned about hemangiomas that summer as well.
Without realizing it, I began emulating just about everything there was about Debbie. She was a cute blonde, with a laugh that not only made you laugh along, but made you stop what you were doing to watch her laugh! Debbie was always tan and wore a gold rope chain around her neck that she said Billy gave her when she had her baby. The story was, that although naked while delivering her baby, she did not remove her rope chain. And then, the giggles would come as she shared that story repeatedly. I was one of three salesgirls (what we were called then!) and the other two were Susie Hoercher, a student at Southampton College and Samantha Munn of Carrie Munn society fame. Sam Munn was also dating Ivan Obolensky, an actual prince! Her family’s mansion was on Gin Lane directly on the ocean. The one time I went there to pick up Sam, I was completely dumbfounded by the magnificence of it all. Mrs. Woolworth would drive up to Tapemeasure, in in her chauffer driven white Rolls Royce to shop and Dina Merrill would come in whenever new clothing arrived to try them all on. I was beyond star struck and when I would drop these names to my crazy mother, she would ooh and aah, always with envy.
Debbie would take her lunch break on a Kurtz cot in the back of the store in a tiny courtyard that lay in the blazing sun. She would apply Marcella Borghese sun gelee onto her arms, legs and face and sunbathe for an hour. I can remember that sweet yet exotic, almost musky scent. I marched myself over to Saks Fifth Avenue on Main Street and also bought Borghese to follow suit. I basked in that sun with my freckled-Irish-not-to-be-in-sun skin day after day, and am convinced that my current skin cancers, began then!
Lothars were the big fashion item that summer. They were thin cotton safari type shirts with matching bell bottom pants. Lothars were tie dyed but with only one pastel color and white. The most popular were the original Lothars which were light blue and white. Then, other colors were added including pink, yellow, green, and black. Debbie wore a different one each day and we sold a ton of those very chic outfits. They were definitely the hot fashion of the season.
To go with Lothars and mostly anything else Debbie wore, she donned these cute sandals that were Navaho looking to me with lacing around their leather edges. They were flat and the ones she wore were white though they did come in colors. Debbie bought these at the fancy Southampton shoe shop, called Boot Tree. The sandals were called Jackie Rogers, not Jack Rogers as they are now. These sandals stayed with me for all these years and as I saw women wearing them summer after summer, I wondered why I never got them myself. In the last few years, they have become even more popular and I became more fixated on them. Last week, I caved and found a pair on Ebay. They are ridiculously overpriced now and still were, even on Ebay despite being used, but nonetheless, I own them now and feel quite pleased.
Over the years I became somewhat obsessed over emulating Debbie. I worked for her all that summer, but when fall came, there just was not enough business. The Hamptons were still primarily summer resorts and so Michael Dayan’s Tapemeasure closed for the season. I was now unemployed and only able to stay in Hampton Bays for a few more months, which became lonely and cold. Debbie had a fall party that year called “Come as you were in the 50’s.” I wore Dr. Denton pjs and came with a date who was an attorney and drove a red Corvette (that is all I remember about him!). She served MacDonald’s style shoe string fries and burgers and we were all duly impressed. All Debbie’s parties were fabulous and creative. I continued to visit Debbie regularly until I returned to Richmond Hill and moved back into my odd apartment.
I remained a friend and a devoted fan of Debbie’s for the next 20 or so years. When Debbie opened her first shop on Jobs Lane called Phase Nine, I was green with envy. It was a maternity shop and she had a fun partner. It seemed like the right place at the right time and I was dying to open a similar type shop for years. I believe it only stayed open for a couple seasons, focused on a small niche market, but Debbie always acted as if it was a huge success.
After Phase Nine folded, a couple years later, she bought an existing children’s wear boutique called, Robin Christopher. I remember attending the champagne gala opening feeling like I would just spend the rest of my life trying to be Debbie. I shared that thought with my fiancee that night. This shop was even bigger and in a better location and I was twice as envious. I now drank Gin and Tonics with lime albeit only once in awhile, as opposed to Debbie’s nightly ritual. I went on a high protein diet a la Dr. Atkins, because Debbie did. She taught me to eat the bread and skip the butter, but in retrospect, I think that is the opposite of how that diet works! I chose yellow and green as my favorite color combination, as Debbie did. And, although I hated fudge and still do, I purchased it occasionally from Ye Olde Fudge Shoppe on Main Street, acting as if it were a huge treat, as Debbie did. I even sprung for the purchase of Dom Perignon champagne for special events, as Debbie did. I collected Bilston and Battersea enameled Halcyon boxes from Caldwell Alexander, as Debbie did, though never acquiring nearly the collection she had. I copied her laugh. I threw my head back when I laughed and tossed my hair even though it wasn’t blond. And most importantly, I got a gold rope necklace that I wore around my neck every single day.
When I married Shep (in the Hamptons of course) in 1978, Debbie and Billy came to our reception, donned completely in pink and green. You just couldn’t get more Hamptons than that. After Shep and I were married, we received regular invitations to Debbie and Billy’s for dinners and parties. Mostly, they served lobster, always champagne and always gin and tonics with lime. Dessert was dense and delicious chocolate cake that Debbie had whipped up and in many ways, she rivaled Martha Stewart. Her parties were always fabulous and her kitchen was always very, very white so needless to say, I have lusted after a white kitchen for many years. When I had babies or young children in later years, and towed them along, I always felt awkward and inappropriate.
Shep and I had Debbie and Billy over to our Hampton Bays house for dinner one night with our friends, Mickey and Buck from Sutton Place in Manhattan. We too, lived in Manhattan but we had purchased this Hampton Bays weekend house one rainy Mother’s Day weekend while visiting Debbie and Billy. It was an odd and impulsive purchase in looking back. The ranch house had a Corning cook top which was a new concept at the time and we did not realize that only Corning cookware would make contact with it to get hot enough to cook!. Of course, our menu was lobster and baked potatoes and of course, the cocktail of the evening was gin and tonic. All six of us were completely blitzed by dinner because the water NEVER boiled and we waited and waited and waited to eat while drinking to kill the time. Disaster dinner! I have a photo of the six of us, still. We also spent a couple of New Year’s Eves with The Owens at parties. Debbie always looked completely fabulous. I always felt ultra frumpy and dark around her.
To elaborate, I really never felt good around Debbie. Even the day she met me in New York City and took me to the Waldorf for lunch, which I loved. I was young, working in New York and very hip yet, I still felt dumpy! Over that lunch, Debbie mentioned that she had been on “the pill” for years and years and though she had frequent migraines, she didn’t care. I was concerned, but she was too happy and glib to care. I remember how I adored the fancy Waldorf bathroom and loved having this lunch, yet still felt lesser than, when with Debbie.
In later years, we moved into the Hampton Bays house year round. On the rare days when I ran out without any makeup on, I could be sure to run into Debbie, smiling, beaming, and beautiful. She played tennis regularly and wore her cute whites everywhere. The worst encounter was when I went to her beach club invited by a friend of mine. I had so many kids and this time, I was hauling around baby number three or four on a blustery day at this bay beach. I was overweight, post baby and more bedraggled than ever. While carrying the baby and trying to rescue my flying beach umbrella, I tripped and fell into the sand, baby in arms, umbrella flailing, my hair like a mad woman’s and my post pregnancy swimsuit, ungainly and unflattering. I looked up and there she was—glowingly tan, thin, sleek, blond hair pulled into a tight knot, and that gorgeous white smile she always wore. “Oh, how are you?” she squealed. “I am okay, this is MY third baby boy here.” “This is MY new tennis bracelet” she said as she flashed this dazzling cluster of diamonds all around her tan wrist. All of her jewelry always came from Rose Jewelers on Main Street and once, when Shep decided to buy me a diamond anniversary band he went there to purchase it. I was thrilled and wear it still. But, somehow, my jewels never came close to the sparkle and spectacular quality of Debbie’s. I remember feeling crushed that day, wondering why I was me and Debbie was Debbie.
Once, when Debbie gave me her copy of Tracy Kidder’s “Old Friends” to read, she wrote inside of it, “We have more in common than you will ever know.” I never could figure out just what she meant. But, to this day, I am flattered.
This story does not end well. Around 1992, Debbie was diagnosed with ovarian cancer. In 1993, I had yet another son, Gregory. I called Debbie to invite her to a christening party and she told me of her diagnosis and chemotherapy. Ever positive I remember her saying, “This is the worst thing that’s ever happened to me, but it isn’t that bad.” I suppose many Adult Children of Alcoholics might feel that way, and Debbie was indeed an offspring of an alcoholic household. “Are you calling me because I have ‘cahn-cer?” she queried. “No, I said, I did not know that. “I’m just calling you because…”
We moved to North Carolina in the summer of 1993 with our four sons and in 1995, we returned to the Hamptons for a visit. My 27 month old baby, Gregory drowned during that trip and devastation set and took permanent residence in our family. A few months later when I called Debbie, she said that she wasn’t doing that well and I responded in the oddest way, “If you die, will you please take care of Gregory”, I sobbed. She did not answer. I continued to call Debbie from time to time as she continued treatment. Always an atheist, she seemed to have found God and was visited by a local fundamentalist minister regularly. She also was thrilled by the sighting of the pope once when she came out of Sloan Kettering hospital and felt that he had looked “directly at her” Once when I called, she described this “ gorgeous golden amber liquid pouring into my arm” which I assumed were platelets. I ended our conversation with, “I love you Debbie.” “I love you too, she said, “very, very much.” And another time, I said, “Debbie, I want to have another child, but I think I am too old to get pregnant.” “That wouldn’t stop me, she said, “Go for it.” And so I did. The rest is history also known as my 12 year old twins.
I don’t know when Debbie died and that bothers me terribly. I have never been able to find out the details and was so deeply involved in rebuilding my own life at the time, that I missed it and no one ever let me know. I have contacted her husband, her sons, and her sister and shared how much she meant to me, and yet, I have never heard back from any of them. I requested this paperweight I painted for her once in my early twenties, that was of course, yellow and green with the words, “Great daughter, wife, and mother.” I wanted it as a memento, but again, no response. So, I have a photo of Debbie lying down under a Christmas tree, looking frail, but of course smiling and blond. She has her arms around her niece and I suspect it was not long before she died. The photo is on the desk in my bedroom and I see it every morning. Debbie always seems to come to me when I am in yoga class and she chatters in my ear. When I am trying to concentrate and relax, I politely ask her to stop. She still chatters and giggles on.
But now, finally, after all these years, I have the sandals, the coveted Jackie/Jack Rogers sandals. Mine are caramel color and white and I think Debbie would have heartily approved.
In 1973, I sublet my apartment in Richmond Hill, Queens. It is hard to imagine now, who would have wanted to live there. It was in a two family home with an Irish immigrant family who owned it, living on the first floor. There was little or no privacy. I lived upstairs in a converted "illegal" one bedroom apartment with a kitchen that had been a bedroom. I shared a hallway bathroom with Alice Eggerton who was in her late 80's and chain-smoked Virginia Slims when she wasn't choking from coughing. Considering the fact that I was only 16 years old when I first left home, I suppose this was all that I needed. I was safe, peaceful and away from my Borderline personality mother. So, in the summer of 1973, I sublet this place to a friend I had worked with. I packed my bags and moved out to a one-room rental in Southampton, Long Island, overlooking Shinnecock Bay with Black eyed Susans in the driveway.
As soon as I got out to the Hamptons, I hit Jobs (pronounced with long “o” like in the bible!) Lane and Main Street checking each boutique for employment. When I got to the Tapemeasure Boutique at the end of Jobs Lane, I was hired by a vivacious blonde, named, Debbie Owen. I had a merchandising degree from The Fashion Institute of Technology and had worked as a designer, buyer, manager in various fashion industry positions so I was quite qualified for this position. But, I wanted to live in the Hamptons and was convinced I could live there year round, so this is where I would start.
Meeting Debbie Owen was life changing. She became a key figure and influence on my life with more largesse then I could ever have imagined. I was 23 years old and though I had lived a fuller life than most women that age, I was still a virgin and had not been in a steady relationship yet. Debbie became my role model in every way. She was married to Billy who was this adorable guy and she had a baby named Kyle. Her baby was also cute, but had a large hemangioma on his head, which caught one’s eye while cooing to him in his seat. I learned about hemangiomas that summer as well.
Without realizing it, I began emulating just about everything there was about Debbie. She was a cute blonde, with a laugh that not only made you laugh along, but made you stop what you were doing to watch her laugh! Debbie was always tan and wore a gold rope chain around her neck that she said Billy gave her when she had her baby. The story was, that although naked while delivering her baby, she did not remove her rope chain. And then, the giggles would come as she shared that story repeatedly. I was one of three salesgirls (what we were called then!) and the other two were Susie Hoercher, a student at Southampton College and Samantha Munn of Carrie Munn society fame. Sam Munn was also dating Ivan Obolensky, an actual prince! Her family’s mansion was on Gin Lane directly on the ocean. The one time I went there to pick up Sam, I was completely dumbfounded by the magnificence of it all. Mrs. Woolworth would drive up to Tapemeasure, in in her chauffer driven white Rolls Royce to shop and Dina Merrill would come in whenever new clothing arrived to try them all on. I was beyond star struck and when I would drop these names to my crazy mother, she would ooh and aah, always with envy.
Debbie would take her lunch break on a Kurtz cot in the back of the store in a tiny courtyard that lay in the blazing sun. She would apply Marcella Borghese sun gelee onto her arms, legs and face and sunbathe for an hour. I can remember that sweet yet exotic, almost musky scent. I marched myself over to Saks Fifth Avenue on Main Street and also bought Borghese to follow suit. I basked in that sun with my freckled-Irish-not-to-be-in-sun skin day after day, and am convinced that my current skin cancers, began then!
Lothars were the big fashion item that summer. They were thin cotton safari type shirts with matching bell bottom pants. Lothars were tie dyed but with only one pastel color and white. The most popular were the original Lothars which were light blue and white. Then, other colors were added including pink, yellow, green, and black. Debbie wore a different one each day and we sold a ton of those very chic outfits. They were definitely the hot fashion of the season.
To go with Lothars and mostly anything else Debbie wore, she donned these cute sandals that were Navaho looking to me with lacing around their leather edges. They were flat and the ones she wore were white though they did come in colors. Debbie bought these at the fancy Southampton shoe shop, called Boot Tree. The sandals were called Jackie Rogers, not Jack Rogers as they are now. These sandals stayed with me for all these years and as I saw women wearing them summer after summer, I wondered why I never got them myself. In the last few years, they have become even more popular and I became more fixated on them. Last week, I caved and found a pair on Ebay. They are ridiculously overpriced now and still were, even on Ebay despite being used, but nonetheless, I own them now and feel quite pleased.
Over the years I became somewhat obsessed over emulating Debbie. I worked for her all that summer, but when fall came, there just was not enough business. The Hamptons were still primarily summer resorts and so Michael Dayan’s Tapemeasure closed for the season. I was now unemployed and only able to stay in Hampton Bays for a few more months, which became lonely and cold. Debbie had a fall party that year called “Come as you were in the 50’s.” I wore Dr. Denton pjs and came with a date who was an attorney and drove a red Corvette (that is all I remember about him!). She served MacDonald’s style shoe string fries and burgers and we were all duly impressed. All Debbie’s parties were fabulous and creative. I continued to visit Debbie regularly until I returned to Richmond Hill and moved back into my odd apartment.
I remained a friend and a devoted fan of Debbie’s for the next 20 or so years. When Debbie opened her first shop on Jobs Lane called Phase Nine, I was green with envy. It was a maternity shop and she had a fun partner. It seemed like the right place at the right time and I was dying to open a similar type shop for years. I believe it only stayed open for a couple seasons, focused on a small niche market, but Debbie always acted as if it was a huge success.
After Phase Nine folded, a couple years later, she bought an existing children’s wear boutique called, Robin Christopher. I remember attending the champagne gala opening feeling like I would just spend the rest of my life trying to be Debbie. I shared that thought with my fiancee that night. This shop was even bigger and in a better location and I was twice as envious. I now drank Gin and Tonics with lime albeit only once in awhile, as opposed to Debbie’s nightly ritual. I went on a high protein diet a la Dr. Atkins, because Debbie did. She taught me to eat the bread and skip the butter, but in retrospect, I think that is the opposite of how that diet works! I chose yellow and green as my favorite color combination, as Debbie did. And, although I hated fudge and still do, I purchased it occasionally from Ye Olde Fudge Shoppe on Main Street, acting as if it were a huge treat, as Debbie did. I even sprung for the purchase of Dom Perignon champagne for special events, as Debbie did. I collected Bilston and Battersea enameled Halcyon boxes from Caldwell Alexander, as Debbie did, though never acquiring nearly the collection she had. I copied her laugh. I threw my head back when I laughed and tossed my hair even though it wasn’t blond. And most importantly, I got a gold rope necklace that I wore around my neck every single day.
When I married Shep (in the Hamptons of course) in 1978, Debbie and Billy came to our reception, donned completely in pink and green. You just couldn’t get more Hamptons than that. After Shep and I were married, we received regular invitations to Debbie and Billy’s for dinners and parties. Mostly, they served lobster, always champagne and always gin and tonics with lime. Dessert was dense and delicious chocolate cake that Debbie had whipped up and in many ways, she rivaled Martha Stewart. Her parties were always fabulous and her kitchen was always very, very white so needless to say, I have lusted after a white kitchen for many years. When I had babies or young children in later years, and towed them along, I always felt awkward and inappropriate.
Shep and I had Debbie and Billy over to our Hampton Bays house for dinner one night with our friends, Mickey and Buck from Sutton Place in Manhattan. We too, lived in Manhattan but we had purchased this Hampton Bays weekend house one rainy Mother’s Day weekend while visiting Debbie and Billy. It was an odd and impulsive purchase in looking back. The ranch house had a Corning cook top which was a new concept at the time and we did not realize that only Corning cookware would make contact with it to get hot enough to cook!. Of course, our menu was lobster and baked potatoes and of course, the cocktail of the evening was gin and tonic. All six of us were completely blitzed by dinner because the water NEVER boiled and we waited and waited and waited to eat while drinking to kill the time. Disaster dinner! I have a photo of the six of us, still. We also spent a couple of New Year’s Eves with The Owens at parties. Debbie always looked completely fabulous. I always felt ultra frumpy and dark around her.
To elaborate, I really never felt good around Debbie. Even the day she met me in New York City and took me to the Waldorf for lunch, which I loved. I was young, working in New York and very hip yet, I still felt dumpy! Over that lunch, Debbie mentioned that she had been on “the pill” for years and years and though she had frequent migraines, she didn’t care. I was concerned, but she was too happy and glib to care. I remember how I adored the fancy Waldorf bathroom and loved having this lunch, yet still felt lesser than, when with Debbie.
In later years, we moved into the Hampton Bays house year round. On the rare days when I ran out without any makeup on, I could be sure to run into Debbie, smiling, beaming, and beautiful. She played tennis regularly and wore her cute whites everywhere. The worst encounter was when I went to her beach club invited by a friend of mine. I had so many kids and this time, I was hauling around baby number three or four on a blustery day at this bay beach. I was overweight, post baby and more bedraggled than ever. While carrying the baby and trying to rescue my flying beach umbrella, I tripped and fell into the sand, baby in arms, umbrella flailing, my hair like a mad woman’s and my post pregnancy swimsuit, ungainly and unflattering. I looked up and there she was—glowingly tan, thin, sleek, blond hair pulled into a tight knot, and that gorgeous white smile she always wore. “Oh, how are you?” she squealed. “I am okay, this is MY third baby boy here.” “This is MY new tennis bracelet” she said as she flashed this dazzling cluster of diamonds all around her tan wrist. All of her jewelry always came from Rose Jewelers on Main Street and once, when Shep decided to buy me a diamond anniversary band he went there to purchase it. I was thrilled and wear it still. But, somehow, my jewels never came close to the sparkle and spectacular quality of Debbie’s. I remember feeling crushed that day, wondering why I was me and Debbie was Debbie.
Once, when Debbie gave me her copy of Tracy Kidder’s “Old Friends” to read, she wrote inside of it, “We have more in common than you will ever know.” I never could figure out just what she meant. But, to this day, I am flattered.
This story does not end well. Around 1992, Debbie was diagnosed with ovarian cancer. In 1993, I had yet another son, Gregory. I called Debbie to invite her to a christening party and she told me of her diagnosis and chemotherapy. Ever positive I remember her saying, “This is the worst thing that’s ever happened to me, but it isn’t that bad.” I suppose many Adult Children of Alcoholics might feel that way, and Debbie was indeed an offspring of an alcoholic household. “Are you calling me because I have ‘cahn-cer?” she queried. “No, I said, I did not know that. “I’m just calling you because…”
We moved to North Carolina in the summer of 1993 with our four sons and in 1995, we returned to the Hamptons for a visit. My 27 month old baby, Gregory drowned during that trip and devastation set and took permanent residence in our family. A few months later when I called Debbie, she said that she wasn’t doing that well and I responded in the oddest way, “If you die, will you please take care of Gregory”, I sobbed. She did not answer. I continued to call Debbie from time to time as she continued treatment. Always an atheist, she seemed to have found God and was visited by a local fundamentalist minister regularly. She also was thrilled by the sighting of the pope once when she came out of Sloan Kettering hospital and felt that he had looked “directly at her” Once when I called, she described this “ gorgeous golden amber liquid pouring into my arm” which I assumed were platelets. I ended our conversation with, “I love you Debbie.” “I love you too, she said, “very, very much.” And another time, I said, “Debbie, I want to have another child, but I think I am too old to get pregnant.” “That wouldn’t stop me, she said, “Go for it.” And so I did. The rest is history also known as my 12 year old twins.
I don’t know when Debbie died and that bothers me terribly. I have never been able to find out the details and was so deeply involved in rebuilding my own life at the time, that I missed it and no one ever let me know. I have contacted her husband, her sons, and her sister and shared how much she meant to me, and yet, I have never heard back from any of them. I requested this paperweight I painted for her once in my early twenties, that was of course, yellow and green with the words, “Great daughter, wife, and mother.” I wanted it as a memento, but again, no response. So, I have a photo of Debbie lying down under a Christmas tree, looking frail, but of course smiling and blond. She has her arms around her niece and I suspect it was not long before she died. The photo is on the desk in my bedroom and I see it every morning. Debbie always seems to come to me when I am in yoga class and she chatters in my ear. When I am trying to concentrate and relax, I politely ask her to stop. She still chatters and giggles on.
But now, finally, after all these years, I have the sandals, the coveted Jackie/Jack Rogers sandals. Mine are caramel color and white and I think Debbie would have heartily approved.
Thursday, June 16, 2011
Overreactions
Tears are welling up in my eyes as I place my groceries on the conveyor belt in Kroger. The elderly woman with chopped gray hair, is ahead of me and buying all the marked down bakery items and 3 quarts of marked down buttermilk. The man, sort of with her (sharing a cart after all) but sort of not, because he separates his groceries from hers with the divider, has gleaned all the rest of the marked down cakes and cookies. I wonder. He too, has some discounted buttermilk. He is big and he is obese. What will they do with all these chemical laden sweets? He looks at the cantaloupes I am buying and says, "Ahh, I was so tempted, but figured, not this time." I'm not sure what that means. Should I give him mine and pay for them? Then, he squabbles over the prices being rung up and frets that he cannot find his $10 bill. His total is $30.36, which oddly includes a copy of Consumers Reports at $6.99. He tells the cashier that he filled his gas tank yesterday and had to go to the bank to get what was left in his account to pay for the gas. I am getting choked up now. He tries to make jokes that aren't funny and no one laughs, not even politely.
My turn now, includes mangoes, peaches, the cantaloupes, cottage cheese, organic cereal and Greek yogurt. Purist? Dieter? Effete food snob? I have my reusable bags for which Kroger gives me extra points. Where are those points and how do I use them? The bagger struggles with my nylon flat bags because he has some type of palsy and completely mangled and tangled hands that can barely move, let along pick up each peach to put into my flat bags. I try to help him, but he pulls away and drops each peach separately in agonizing movements. Now, I am overwhelmed and fighting to hold back my tears. It is all so hard for everyone. It is such a damned struggle for us all to hold it together, to get the things done, to pay for them, to move them, to complete them each and every day.... do we really have to emulate Jesus carrying his cross ALL the time?
I am tender. I am vulnerable. I am in a complete state of terror and panic. My ill son, so very, very ill for the last few years with Chronic Lyme Disease, curled up in a fetal position on most days up in his third floor, isolated bedroom, has a new symptom. He has been bleeding on and off for some time and has hidden this, spending inordinate times in the bathroom day after day. He says it gets better, and it gets worse. I am shocked. I do the thing no one should do, when I go online and look up the symptoms for Colon Cancer. They all match to a T. We rushed to the general practitioner yesterday in the hopes she would find hemorrhoids. She did not. Yes, the blood was dark in color. We need to see a proctologist. I go directly from 0 to 100 in seconds and find myself in the "wanting to rip my skin off" place I am familiar with. I range from overwhelming terror to panic to hysteria feeling that in his ill state he could never survive another onslaught and that I simply could not survive that lack of survival. Confusing? When panic and fear take over all Zen and rational behavior, this is what happens. We cannot see the doctor for 5 days. I feel I will never survive 5 days. I may not. But what does that mean?
My kind and quirky therapist has me come to see her last night. On the way there, I find myself driving behind a screaming ambulance. On the best of days, I cannot, absolutely cannot drive behind an ambulance because I return immediately to the trauma of that moment on 5/3/95. I especially cannot do this tonight, so I am beginning to crumble before I ever arrive. I am jealous of all the people I know who look like they are having happy normal lives. I am jealous of my old acquaintance in the Hamptons whose one daughter just married this weekend, while attended to by her very pregnant sister. They went to nursery school with my kids. They are normal. I am envious. I am jealous of my friend who I met in Europe in the 70's and whose very wealthy, healthy and successful son just got engaged and is planning a fabulous NY wedding. I do not wish these friends ill harm in any way and I really am happy for their joy, but along side that is envy. Can those two emotions coexist? Perhaps. So, when a smiling couple emerges from my therapists office, indeed, I am jealous of them too.
Basically, the therapist tells me that I need to get my act together and I can see the fear on her face when I begin sobbing and shaking. I can feel my whole body heaving when I try to describe the fear that I am accusing her of not understanding. Who really can understand the depth of dread and angst that I live with? No one can. But perhaps, that doesn't matter. Peter is not my only child, she reminds me. It is true. I must remain standing through the tornados to care for the others, especially the little ones. I need to imagine that things may not be the worst, and might be less than that. I need to divert myself from the ruminating. Is that possible? Don't know. Will see. My mother, my crazy, crazy mother used to say, "To stand from fear, set free and wait." Did she leave me some wisdom?
My turn now, includes mangoes, peaches, the cantaloupes, cottage cheese, organic cereal and Greek yogurt. Purist? Dieter? Effete food snob? I have my reusable bags for which Kroger gives me extra points. Where are those points and how do I use them? The bagger struggles with my nylon flat bags because he has some type of palsy and completely mangled and tangled hands that can barely move, let along pick up each peach to put into my flat bags. I try to help him, but he pulls away and drops each peach separately in agonizing movements. Now, I am overwhelmed and fighting to hold back my tears. It is all so hard for everyone. It is such a damned struggle for us all to hold it together, to get the things done, to pay for them, to move them, to complete them each and every day.... do we really have to emulate Jesus carrying his cross ALL the time?
I am tender. I am vulnerable. I am in a complete state of terror and panic. My ill son, so very, very ill for the last few years with Chronic Lyme Disease, curled up in a fetal position on most days up in his third floor, isolated bedroom, has a new symptom. He has been bleeding on and off for some time and has hidden this, spending inordinate times in the bathroom day after day. He says it gets better, and it gets worse. I am shocked. I do the thing no one should do, when I go online and look up the symptoms for Colon Cancer. They all match to a T. We rushed to the general practitioner yesterday in the hopes she would find hemorrhoids. She did not. Yes, the blood was dark in color. We need to see a proctologist. I go directly from 0 to 100 in seconds and find myself in the "wanting to rip my skin off" place I am familiar with. I range from overwhelming terror to panic to hysteria feeling that in his ill state he could never survive another onslaught and that I simply could not survive that lack of survival. Confusing? When panic and fear take over all Zen and rational behavior, this is what happens. We cannot see the doctor for 5 days. I feel I will never survive 5 days. I may not. But what does that mean?
My kind and quirky therapist has me come to see her last night. On the way there, I find myself driving behind a screaming ambulance. On the best of days, I cannot, absolutely cannot drive behind an ambulance because I return immediately to the trauma of that moment on 5/3/95. I especially cannot do this tonight, so I am beginning to crumble before I ever arrive. I am jealous of all the people I know who look like they are having happy normal lives. I am jealous of my old acquaintance in the Hamptons whose one daughter just married this weekend, while attended to by her very pregnant sister. They went to nursery school with my kids. They are normal. I am envious. I am jealous of my friend who I met in Europe in the 70's and whose very wealthy, healthy and successful son just got engaged and is planning a fabulous NY wedding. I do not wish these friends ill harm in any way and I really am happy for their joy, but along side that is envy. Can those two emotions coexist? Perhaps. So, when a smiling couple emerges from my therapists office, indeed, I am jealous of them too.
Basically, the therapist tells me that I need to get my act together and I can see the fear on her face when I begin sobbing and shaking. I can feel my whole body heaving when I try to describe the fear that I am accusing her of not understanding. Who really can understand the depth of dread and angst that I live with? No one can. But perhaps, that doesn't matter. Peter is not my only child, she reminds me. It is true. I must remain standing through the tornados to care for the others, especially the little ones. I need to imagine that things may not be the worst, and might be less than that. I need to divert myself from the ruminating. Is that possible? Don't know. Will see. My mother, my crazy, crazy mother used to say, "To stand from fear, set free and wait." Did she leave me some wisdom?
Monday, May 23, 2011
Rabbit Hole
Peter called us from the Lyme protest in DC and asked, "What are you guys doing tonight?" "Renting a movie," I responded so cavalierly... "Huh?" Peter responded, "You never do that." "Yes, well, the twins are out a friend's house and we so wanted to see yet another movie that had come and gone as they usually do. It is 'Rabbit Hole' " "Oh no, Peter said, "don't do that." We did it anyway. We should not have. And now, I am in the trenches once again, unable to get it out of my mind.
For those who do not already know, it is about The Corbetts, a couple who has lost a young child in an accident when he ran after his dog into a road and was run down by a teen driver. It is a mostly low key, almost hard to hear, tight, stressful movie. But, here's the thing. I lived the life they depict. Oh there were a few minor adjustments in casting, location, and family structure. Most of all, the fact that at the time of my young child's death due to drowning, we also had three surviving children. But, it is the tension, the lack of breathing and the impossible task of living that I recognized in this movie, with my heart and soul. As for the main difference -- the surviving kids -- here's the angst. Shep and I, to this day, have never been able to decide whether that was better or worse for us at the time. I mean, hold on there -- of course, we are grateful to every fiber in our bodies that we had and still have these absolute blessings of three wholesome sons and in retrospect, I am not sure that I could have, or would have survived without them. But, at the time of our holocaust, we really were not sure.
Here's the thing. In the days, the weeks, the months and then surprisingly, the years following the death of your child, NOTHING is right. As was so well depicted in this movie, no matter what each of the parents did or did not do, it could never be right. From the simple things like the way you look, the way food tastes, the act of trying to sleep, going to the bathroom, showering, brushing or not brushing your teeth...NOTHING feels or seems as it was. And, for the most part, NOTHING is the same at all. On many days, you want desperately to find a way to rip your skin off. I mean that literally, because the truth is, you cannot fathom staying in this skin a moment longer. And so, in this movie, the mother of the child is mostly feigning denial as she attempts to go about life and dismantle the memories of her child. She tries to give away his things, strip his room, remove all photos, refrigerator art work, neighbors, friends, her son's dog, other little children. She thinks she can simply forge ahead into life sans her child. Her husband on the other hand, wants to have it all in his face. He wants the smells, the sights, the pets, the friends, the essence of his child with him as he watches videos over and over and over, stroking the camera lens as he does. He wants to drown in the images and memories of his precious son. Neither is workable. They go to Compassionate Friends meetings together. She finds this impossible and leaves rudely. He finds it a possible help and keeps going even without her. In a way, the movie minimized the agony one is in at these meetings by having Mr. Corbett become attracted to one of the meeting leaders. This would be highly unlikely since your whole self is so totally unpresent that I doubt you would even notice Beyonce sitting across the table of torture. One's heart would need to be beating to find oneself attracted to someone and hey, there is barely a detectable pulse. Corbett tries though. He tries to spend time with this "other woman" and even tries smoking pot with her. "Could he have fun?" he is wondering. Nothing works, remember, NOTHING. He even goes to her home with clearly ill intentions as his own wife becomes more and more impossible to live with. It doesn't work. He is unable to connect to another woman after all and turns and leaves.
As for his wife. She tries too. She tries by connecting to the young male driver of the car that killed her son. She stalks him in a way, watching him get on and off the school bus to high school each day. Then, she begins meeting with him in parks to talk. They stare straight ahead, never making eye contact and they speak in short, low, parts of sentences in as flat an affect as possible. They cannot go to the well of emotion. They both know that and so they don't. They air brush the burning topic here and there, but not to its core. It is not possible. NOTHING, remember, nothing.
This couples marriage is on the rocks. So, is the marriage of most bereaved parents. Of course, what else could happen? When you cannot be in your own skin, you sure don't want to be skin to skin with someone else. This couple is grieving in polar opposite spheres and that becomes impossible.
As for Shep and me and how it felt to have others in the house, it is complicated. But, the thing is, you cannot lift your head up off the pillow. You awaken in the morning, shocked that in fact, the same horror show you left at night is awaiting you fresh in the morning. If you brush your teeth, you have made a major effort. Oftentimes, you don't. But, you see there are these three other young kids at home and they do need breakfast, lunch, and dinner. They do need to be driven here and there. Their birthdays come. Christmas comes. They do need to be taken to Hospice and to therapists to help them deal with their own personal devastation. But, you just don't feel that there is any way to get up and do those things. Often, others come and help and that is a godsend. But sometimes, you are it and you have to get up and go. Those are the times when Shep and I would look at each other and wish that we could just be alone to cry for hours and not have to do anything more than listen to each others wails of grief and loss and the desperate missing of our squishy two year old.
The couple in this movie didn't have that distraction, but they were very close to losing each other. It is estimated that more than half of marriages fail following the death of a child, with the first six months being the most disastrous. In the end, this couple seems to find their way which is a relief for those of us watching. For me, I am deeply grateful that my husband, Shep and I grieved in very similar ways and like wet noodles could never really prop each other up, but managed to be stronger on the day that the other was weaker. We chose to immerse ourselves in the memories, the photos, the scents, the memorials. For us, it strengthened our marriage, because it was as if we had this secret and no one else could begin to understand what we were going through. But, we did both know and if we left each other, than if fact, there would be no one who knew the shared love and loss.
For those who do not already know, it is about The Corbetts, a couple who has lost a young child in an accident when he ran after his dog into a road and was run down by a teen driver. It is a mostly low key, almost hard to hear, tight, stressful movie. But, here's the thing. I lived the life they depict. Oh there were a few minor adjustments in casting, location, and family structure. Most of all, the fact that at the time of my young child's death due to drowning, we also had three surviving children. But, it is the tension, the lack of breathing and the impossible task of living that I recognized in this movie, with my heart and soul. As for the main difference -- the surviving kids -- here's the angst. Shep and I, to this day, have never been able to decide whether that was better or worse for us at the time. I mean, hold on there -- of course, we are grateful to every fiber in our bodies that we had and still have these absolute blessings of three wholesome sons and in retrospect, I am not sure that I could have, or would have survived without them. But, at the time of our holocaust, we really were not sure.
Here's the thing. In the days, the weeks, the months and then surprisingly, the years following the death of your child, NOTHING is right. As was so well depicted in this movie, no matter what each of the parents did or did not do, it could never be right. From the simple things like the way you look, the way food tastes, the act of trying to sleep, going to the bathroom, showering, brushing or not brushing your teeth...NOTHING feels or seems as it was. And, for the most part, NOTHING is the same at all. On many days, you want desperately to find a way to rip your skin off. I mean that literally, because the truth is, you cannot fathom staying in this skin a moment longer. And so, in this movie, the mother of the child is mostly feigning denial as she attempts to go about life and dismantle the memories of her child. She tries to give away his things, strip his room, remove all photos, refrigerator art work, neighbors, friends, her son's dog, other little children. She thinks she can simply forge ahead into life sans her child. Her husband on the other hand, wants to have it all in his face. He wants the smells, the sights, the pets, the friends, the essence of his child with him as he watches videos over and over and over, stroking the camera lens as he does. He wants to drown in the images and memories of his precious son. Neither is workable. They go to Compassionate Friends meetings together. She finds this impossible and leaves rudely. He finds it a possible help and keeps going even without her. In a way, the movie minimized the agony one is in at these meetings by having Mr. Corbett become attracted to one of the meeting leaders. This would be highly unlikely since your whole self is so totally unpresent that I doubt you would even notice Beyonce sitting across the table of torture. One's heart would need to be beating to find oneself attracted to someone and hey, there is barely a detectable pulse. Corbett tries though. He tries to spend time with this "other woman" and even tries smoking pot with her. "Could he have fun?" he is wondering. Nothing works, remember, NOTHING. He even goes to her home with clearly ill intentions as his own wife becomes more and more impossible to live with. It doesn't work. He is unable to connect to another woman after all and turns and leaves.
As for his wife. She tries too. She tries by connecting to the young male driver of the car that killed her son. She stalks him in a way, watching him get on and off the school bus to high school each day. Then, she begins meeting with him in parks to talk. They stare straight ahead, never making eye contact and they speak in short, low, parts of sentences in as flat an affect as possible. They cannot go to the well of emotion. They both know that and so they don't. They air brush the burning topic here and there, but not to its core. It is not possible. NOTHING, remember, nothing.
This couples marriage is on the rocks. So, is the marriage of most bereaved parents. Of course, what else could happen? When you cannot be in your own skin, you sure don't want to be skin to skin with someone else. This couple is grieving in polar opposite spheres and that becomes impossible.
As for Shep and me and how it felt to have others in the house, it is complicated. But, the thing is, you cannot lift your head up off the pillow. You awaken in the morning, shocked that in fact, the same horror show you left at night is awaiting you fresh in the morning. If you brush your teeth, you have made a major effort. Oftentimes, you don't. But, you see there are these three other young kids at home and they do need breakfast, lunch, and dinner. They do need to be driven here and there. Their birthdays come. Christmas comes. They do need to be taken to Hospice and to therapists to help them deal with their own personal devastation. But, you just don't feel that there is any way to get up and do those things. Often, others come and help and that is a godsend. But sometimes, you are it and you have to get up and go. Those are the times when Shep and I would look at each other and wish that we could just be alone to cry for hours and not have to do anything more than listen to each others wails of grief and loss and the desperate missing of our squishy two year old.
The couple in this movie didn't have that distraction, but they were very close to losing each other. It is estimated that more than half of marriages fail following the death of a child, with the first six months being the most disastrous. In the end, this couple seems to find their way which is a relief for those of us watching. For me, I am deeply grateful that my husband, Shep and I grieved in very similar ways and like wet noodles could never really prop each other up, but managed to be stronger on the day that the other was weaker. We chose to immerse ourselves in the memories, the photos, the scents, the memorials. For us, it strengthened our marriage, because it was as if we had this secret and no one else could begin to understand what we were going through. But, we did both know and if we left each other, than if fact, there would be no one who knew the shared love and loss.
I Forgot to Pray!
A couple of weeks ago, my chronically ill son, Peter hit the skids with a sodium level that was so alarmingly low, he was expected to have seizures. We hear this can be typical for chronic Lyme patients on long term IV antibiotics, but that made it no less alarming. We raced him to a nearby, (albeit substandard, ER), where he was given IV fluids and loaded with sodium. He then needed to be admitted and transported to a real hospital by ambulance. Understand that for his dad and for me, being in an ER is no easy feat. I mean, of course it's not, for anyone. But, for us, it brings with it a whole slew of trauma triggers and it is an exhausting fight to maintain presence and not slip away to that dreadful night in 1995 when our then youngest son, Gregory, died. To this day, I still fight nausea when I see a racing ambulance and forever, the sight of vitals bleeping away from an IV sends me into a panic. But, with hard work, we can now differentiate and know that we are here with Peter, 16 years later and things are fairly stable.
So, Peter was admitted to Duke Raleigh hospital (a wise and self preserving choice made by dear husband, Shep as it is so much closer for us to get to) and I actually went to work for a few hours while this transfer took place. When I was done with work, I came and sat in a chair in Peter's room where I stayed for most of the next day and a half. Peter convinced me to go home and sleep which I did, but other than that, I stayed. I spent a lot of time just staring at his ashen face, his emaciated body, his long stringy unkempt hair, his exhaustion that he describes as being "deep in his bones." I stared wondering what had happened to the last few years of this brilliant, charismatic life that I had watched unfold with such pleasure and pride. Did I curse him in some superstitious way by always saying, "Ah, Peter has the Midas touch. Everything he does, everywhere he goes, everything he tries, turns to gold." It was true though. He was so successful every step of the way, straight A's all through school including the two years when he succumbed to deep, grief related depression. He was captain of every sports team in high school, won all the awards he could, including a totally free ride to NCSU Parks Scholarship program. He landed a summer internship with the NFL where he became so beloved that they pleaded with him to stay when summer ended. So, he stayed for a whole year before deciding he wanted to go to Harvard instead of back to NC State University and sure enough -- he got in and soared through Harvard, graduating with honors. When he wanted to experience the NBA, he did, landing another summer internship! And then, after graduation, he became a very successful business consultant in Boston. His future held only the best of everything and he was star bound, although unlike many stars, Peter really had a deep heart and social justice commitment as well. The perfect combination!
So, when I sat watching him, I thought of all those things and more. I tried hard to get work done on my computer. I read Real Simple from cover to cover, vowing to be more organized. I went to eat lunch in the cafeteria and being horrified at the unhealthy offerings, left and hit Trader Joe's. Then I , brought back with me as many salty snacks as I could fit in my canvas bag to pump Peter full of more salt. Peter and I laughed with horror at the food on his meal trays which ranged from yellow jello to a dark grayish "raspberry" sorbet to mystery meat to artificial sweetener included with all. How could the healthiest of us ever recover given a diet like this? Where was Jamie Oliver at a time like this? As usual, Peter and I vowed to work on making healthy hospitals sometime, someday. But, I wondered, "When? When will my boy get back to changing the world?" We were then told that he could not be discharged until he ate meals and walked up the hallway. Until then, all Peter was doing, all he had the energy to do, was sleep. But, one more look at the yellow Jello and we said, "Okay, we have to get out of here." And so, he ate what he could and we made three painfully slow walks up and back to the nurses station. His stats were better enough so that by the second night, we got our ticket out of jail. Whew.
When I was in church the next morning, I had this sudden, shocking thought. Through the whole 48 hour incident, I believe I had forgotten to pray!! I wondered how this could have possibly have happened. I beat myself up for awhile. I questioned my faith and then my commitment to it, to my family, to myself. WHAT was I thinking? How did I forget to at least chant the Anne Lammott prayer of "Help me, help me, help me!" No "Lord's Prayer? Nothing? I don't know... I really don't know how I lost my way and forgot to at least chat with the God I know is always with me. But perhaps, that is just it. I don't need to call upon him, he is there. And maybe, I really was praying all along. Bearing witness, showing up, being there, not leaving, asking the doctor questions, encouraging my patient. Maybe, staring at my son feeling the deepest, most intense love and compassion that is available to us as humans, is in fact, prayer. My love running so deep from my heart to his, is this prayer at its heart? I am there. I am present. I show up. I have prayed.
So, Peter was admitted to Duke Raleigh hospital (a wise and self preserving choice made by dear husband, Shep as it is so much closer for us to get to) and I actually went to work for a few hours while this transfer took place. When I was done with work, I came and sat in a chair in Peter's room where I stayed for most of the next day and a half. Peter convinced me to go home and sleep which I did, but other than that, I stayed. I spent a lot of time just staring at his ashen face, his emaciated body, his long stringy unkempt hair, his exhaustion that he describes as being "deep in his bones." I stared wondering what had happened to the last few years of this brilliant, charismatic life that I had watched unfold with such pleasure and pride. Did I curse him in some superstitious way by always saying, "Ah, Peter has the Midas touch. Everything he does, everywhere he goes, everything he tries, turns to gold." It was true though. He was so successful every step of the way, straight A's all through school including the two years when he succumbed to deep, grief related depression. He was captain of every sports team in high school, won all the awards he could, including a totally free ride to NCSU Parks Scholarship program. He landed a summer internship with the NFL where he became so beloved that they pleaded with him to stay when summer ended. So, he stayed for a whole year before deciding he wanted to go to Harvard instead of back to NC State University and sure enough -- he got in and soared through Harvard, graduating with honors. When he wanted to experience the NBA, he did, landing another summer internship! And then, after graduation, he became a very successful business consultant in Boston. His future held only the best of everything and he was star bound, although unlike many stars, Peter really had a deep heart and social justice commitment as well. The perfect combination!
So, when I sat watching him, I thought of all those things and more. I tried hard to get work done on my computer. I read Real Simple from cover to cover, vowing to be more organized. I went to eat lunch in the cafeteria and being horrified at the unhealthy offerings, left and hit Trader Joe's. Then I , brought back with me as many salty snacks as I could fit in my canvas bag to pump Peter full of more salt. Peter and I laughed with horror at the food on his meal trays which ranged from yellow jello to a dark grayish "raspberry" sorbet to mystery meat to artificial sweetener included with all. How could the healthiest of us ever recover given a diet like this? Where was Jamie Oliver at a time like this? As usual, Peter and I vowed to work on making healthy hospitals sometime, someday. But, I wondered, "When? When will my boy get back to changing the world?" We were then told that he could not be discharged until he ate meals and walked up the hallway. Until then, all Peter was doing, all he had the energy to do, was sleep. But, one more look at the yellow Jello and we said, "Okay, we have to get out of here." And so, he ate what he could and we made three painfully slow walks up and back to the nurses station. His stats were better enough so that by the second night, we got our ticket out of jail. Whew.
When I was in church the next morning, I had this sudden, shocking thought. Through the whole 48 hour incident, I believe I had forgotten to pray!! I wondered how this could have possibly have happened. I beat myself up for awhile. I questioned my faith and then my commitment to it, to my family, to myself. WHAT was I thinking? How did I forget to at least chant the Anne Lammott prayer of "Help me, help me, help me!" No "Lord's Prayer? Nothing? I don't know... I really don't know how I lost my way and forgot to at least chat with the God I know is always with me. But perhaps, that is just it. I don't need to call upon him, he is there. And maybe, I really was praying all along. Bearing witness, showing up, being there, not leaving, asking the doctor questions, encouraging my patient. Maybe, staring at my son feeling the deepest, most intense love and compassion that is available to us as humans, is in fact, prayer. My love running so deep from my heart to his, is this prayer at its heart? I am there. I am present. I show up. I have prayed.
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